"_New hope may bloom,_
_And days may come_
_Of milder, calmer beam,_
_But there's nothing half so sweet in life_
_As Love's young dream:_
_No, there's nothing half so sweet in life_
_As Love's young dream._"
_Chapter Eight_
_INTRODUCES MONTGOMERY JULIEN ETHELBERT SPINKS_
In the attic of an old house in Holywell Street, London, a
frowsy-headed, freckled-faced youth was peering from the gabled window
that fronted on the busy thoroughfare below. This lad was conspicuous
for his lack of beauty. He had a round jolly face, a turned-up and
rather negatively developed nose, and eyes of a neutral shade that might
be described as gray or green with equal correctness. His mouth was
capable of stretching to a length almost awe-inspiring when first
beheld, but could be forgiven for this extravagance, because the teeth
thus exposed were white and regular. His chin was square and slightly
protruding, imparting a rather pugnacious expression to a face that in
other respects seemed to indicate that its owner was of a decidedly
good-humored disposition. He was stockily built, so thick-set, in fact,
that a quick glance would incline one to the belief that he was rather
plump than otherwise, but a closer examination would have revealed that
he owed his size to the possession of an unusual amount of bone and
muscle. This young gentleman rejoiced in the sobriquet of Buster, though
his real title was much more elegant, while lacking entirely in the
almost epigrammatic terseness of his nickname. At the present time he
was anxiously waiting for the approach of an old-clothesman who was
slowly making his way down the street, meanwhile inviting trade at the
top of his lungs. Buster and the old-clothesman were acquaintances of
long standing, though their relations were by no means of a friendly
nature, the eagerness with which the boy awaited the man's coming being
caused entirely by a desire to drop a paper bag full of water upon the
latter's head from the height of three stories, a proceeding which
Buster was sanguine would be productive of reason for unlimited
merriment. He had the bag, empty as yet, clutched tightly in one hand,
while the other was within easy reach of a cracked pitcher full of water
standing on the floor near the window. A disreputable-looking bulldog,
impartially divided as to color between brindle and dirty white, was
inspecting proceedings in a most interested manner from his seat on a
rickety stool in the nearest corner.
Buster sighed with impatience and the dog yawned in sympathy.
"Lord Castlereagh, your rudeness is honly hexceeded by your
himperliteness, the both of wich is hunsurpassed save by your bad
manners. You should put your bloomin' paw hup before that 'ole in your
phis'omy when you sees fit to hexhibit your inards."
Lord Castlereagh cocked one dilapidated ear in token of attention and
wagged his apology for a tail vigorously.
"You feels no remorse, eh?" demanded Buster, severely.
"Woof!" remarked Lord Castlereagh, in extenuation.
"You 're a sinner, that's wot you are," announced the boy, decisively,
"and Hi 'as grave fear that you 'll never git to the dog-star when you
are disceased."
The bulldog seemed depressed at this prediction, and, as though resolved
to convince Buster of the injustice of his statement, leaped off the
stool and approached him with various contortions supposed to be
illustrative of regret and a desire to obtain restoration to a place in
the youth's approval.
At this moment the old-clothesman paused beneath the window, and putting
his hand trumpet-wise to his mouth, shrilly declared his ability and
willingness to purchase whatever cast-off garments those dwelling in the
vicinity might desire to sell. Buster promptly filled the paper bag
with water from the pitcher, and, leaning out as far as he dared,
dropped it with precise aim on the head of the old-clothesman. It
landed fair and square upon the crown of the dilapidated beaver
ornamenting his head, and burst with a soft squash, drenching his
shoulders and scattering a spray all around him.
The dealer uttered a stream of oaths, and, mopping his face with a
handkerchief of dubious hue, looked around for the author of this
apparently unprovoked attack. As the missile had come from above, the
fellow naturally looked upward in search of an enemy, but found nothing
more suspicious in view than the head of a bulldog which was thrust from
a window in dignified contemplation of the scene. Unfortunately the
old-clothesman was well acquainted with the forbidding countenance of
the dog, and promptly attributing his recent ducking to the usual
companion of the animal, proceeded to vigorously announce his doubts as
to the respectability of Buster's immediate ancestry and his subsequent
intentions when he should be so lucky as to encounter the aforesaid
youth. It is almost needless to say that these plans for the future
were scarcely of a nature to meet with the boy's approval, involving as
they did complete fistic annihilation. At once the head of Buster
appeared in the window, an expression of surprise lighting his round
face only to give way to one of gentle gratification when his eye fell
upon the irate peddler.
"Did Hi 'ear some one mentioning of my name?" he demanded pleasantly.
"Oh, 'ow do you do, Mr. Bekowsky? His your 'ealth bloomin'?"
"I 'll bloom you, you imperent little villain," responded Bekowsky,
threateningly, shaking his fist in his anger.
"Wot's that, dear sir?" inquired Buster, in a polite tone. "You seems
hexcited, Mr. Bekowsky. Hits very dangersome to get so over'eated, hand
the summer his 'ardly went yet."
"I 'll overheat you if I lays my hands on you," responded the
old-clothesman.
"Then Hi 'll 'ave to be a cooling of you fer protection," announced
Buster, cheerfully, and without the slightest warning he emptied the
contents of the pitcher he had been concealing behind him over the
enraged Bekowsky, drenching him thoroughly.
"Cool happlications is to be recommended when feverish," he remarked,
carefully lowering the pitcher to the floor of the room without
withdrawing his head from the window, for, like all wise generals, he
considered it unsafe to lose sight of the enemy even for a moment while
the rear was unprotected.
"You murdering little devil, I 'll pay you for this," yelled the
peddler.
"Hat the usual rates, hor special price?" asked Buster, looking
interested.
A crowd began to gather, but this did not interfere with the boy's
pleasure in the slightest degree.
"It's that little rat again," said a red-faced, bull-headed cobbler.
"He 's the pest of the neighborhood."
"You houghtent to let your disapintment carry you so far, Mr. Smirk,"
said Buster, reprovingly. "'Cause your shoes don't just suit my
cultivated taste in the way of feet, it don't follow nobody helse 'll
buy 'em. They 're doosed poor stuff, o' course, but no doubt there is
some foolish enough to wear 'em."
The cobbler cursed him enthusiastically, and, encouraged by this
support, the bespattered Bekowsky borrowed a rattan of a bystander, and
announced his intention of favoring Buster with a call, for the purpose
of inflicting a castigation which he described as much needed.
"Well, well!" exclaimed the lad, who was to be thus favored. "Ham I to
be so honored? Why did n't you let hit be known before, so Hi could
pervide refreshments suitable for such a guest?"
"I 'll be up there in a minute," answered Bekowsky, flourishing his
stick.
"Hi can 'ardly wait so long. Har you a-going to bring your missus?"
inquired Buster, quite unintimidated. "Hi understands that common
report says she is the best fighter in the family. Did she lick you
last night, Hikey?"
This last was too much to be endured, so with another volley of oaths,
the infuriated peddler took a firm grip on the rattan and entered the
hall, the door of which stood invitingly open. The rabble assembled in
front of the house gave a cheer and waited eagerly for developments.
Meanwhile Buster continued to survey the crowd below with a critical
glance, quite oblivious to the danger brought near by the approach of
the peddler. A minute passed and then another, but the boy was still
looking out the window, so it was evident that Bekowsky had not yet
reached the garret. The crowd began to get uneasy.
"Were the 'ell is the bloomin' ragbag gone ter?" asked one seedy
individual. "Don't 'e know 'ee 's keeping us gents waiting?"
"Don't get himpatient, friends," advised Buster. "Bekowsky 's lost 'is
wind and the 'all is so dark he can't see fer to find hit. Hi 'll send
'im a bit o' candle in a minute to 'elp 'im."
"He has fell and busted his neck, maybe," suggested a butcher's
apprentice, in a tone that seemed to indicate he would not regard such a
happening entirely in the light of a calamity.
"Perhaps 'is 'art 'as been touched hand 'ee can't bear to lay 'is 'and
in hanger on a poor horphing like me," said Buster, almost tearful at
the thought of such tenderness. "Perhaps 'ee 'as a noble nature hin
spite o' that 'orrible phisomy."
"What d' ye's mane by congregating in front of me door like this?" cried
a harsh voice, flavored by a rich Milesian accent.
"Hit's Mrs. Malone," exclaimed Buster. "Hi'me that glad to lay heyes
hon 'er. Come pertect me, Mrs. Malone."
A burly Irishwoman, dressed in her best bib and tucker, as becomes a
lady out making a few neighborly calls, elbowed her way through the
crowd, sternly exhorting them to disperse.
"Oh, it's you, you satan?" she remarked wrathfully, gazing up at the
freckled countenance of the lad. "Wot shenanigans have you been up to
now?"
"Hi can't discuss my bizness hin front of a vulgar mob," responded
Buster, loftily. "Hif you 'll come hup, Mrs. Malone, Hi 'll be pleased
to hinform you. Hotherwise Hi 'll be forced to maintain an 'aughty
silence."
"Oh, I 'll come up alright," declared Mrs. Malone, bent on getting to
the bottom of the trouble at once.
"Hi 'opes so," replied Buster, doubtfully. "Shall Hi come to meet you?"
"Never mind."
"Hi don't mind, Mrs. Malone."
Mrs. Malone vanished in the hall and proceeded upstairs at so rapid a
gait that she failed to perceive on the dimly lighted stairway the
figure of Bekowsky, who had been brought to a standstill by the sudden
appearance of Lord Castlereagh in fighting array at the head of the
stairs. The dog so strongly resented any movement, whether up or down,
on the part of the old-clothesman, that that individual had remained
stationary, not daring to stir a foot in either direction until Mrs.
Malone collided with him, forcing him to advance upward on his hands and
knees several steps, a performance that brought Lord Castlereagh leaping
down upon him.
Bekowsky gave one yell of terror and flew down the stairs in three
bounds, the dog yelping furiously at his heels, while Mrs. Malone
escaped a bad fall only by hanging on to the banisters, against which
she had backed herself in an effort to regain the breath rudely expelled
from her lungs by the collision.
"Buster, you omadhaun, what devil's work is this?" gasped Mrs. Malone,
as Lord Castlereagh disappeared below.
Receiving no answer, the good woman prudently decided to abandon her
visit to the garret until the bulldog should have returned to his
domicile, leaving the stairs free from peril, and therefore turned her
steps to her own headquarters on the floor beneath.
_Chapter Nine_
_TOM MOORE RECEIVES CALLS FROM MRS. MALONE AND MR. DYKE_
Meanwhile Lord Castlereagh, having failed to overtake the
terror-stricken old-clothesman before the lower door was reached,
discreetly abandoned the pursuit, as experience had taught him it was
not best for a bulldog to engage in public altercations when not
accompanied by his master. So he came trotting upstairs, beaming with
doggish good nature, the result of a gratifying realization of duty well
done. As the door to the room from the window of which Buster was still
surveying the rapidly diminishing throng clustered in front of the house
was closed, the bulldog scratched vigorously with his claws for
admittance, his request being speedily gratified, for, in spite of the
old-clothesman's voluble explanations, the crowd refused to regard him
as anything but a defeated contestant and, turning a deaf ear to his
indignation, quietly dispersed to their various affairs, leaving Buster
a complete victor in the recent battle.
"You done noble, Lord Castlereagh," said Buster, approvingly, at the
same time seating himself upon one of the rickety chairs with which the
attic was furnished. The comfort of this seat was immediately increased
by his tipping it back on its rear legs, balance being maintained by the
elevation of his feet to the top of the table near by. This was the
lad's favorite position, but his enjoyment was speedily eclipsed by
disaster, as the bulldog, for the moment quite carried away with
exultation at his master's unqualified commendation made a violent
effort to climb up in that worthy's lap, a manoeuvre resulting in both
going over backwards with a crash.
"You willain!" ejaculated the boy, in great disgust. "Wot do you think
Hi am? A hacro-a-bat, or wot?"
Lord Castlereagh apologized violently with his stumpy tail and seemed
quite overwhelmed with regret.
"Has you means well, Hi forgives you, sir," said the Buster, rubbing his
elbow, "but don't never turn no more flipflops in partnership wid
Montgomery Julien Hethelbert Spinks, Esquire, or you may hexpect your
walking papers. Hunderstand?"
Then, as Buster regained his feet, he remembered his master was in the
adjoining bedroom asleep.
"My heye," he muttered. "We must 'ave disturbed 'im, hand 'im so tired
and discouraged, too."
He listened for a moment, then, reassured by the silence reigning in the
next room, nodded his head in satisfaction.
"'Ee 's still asleep," he remarked to the dog. "Dreaming no doubt. Hof
wot, Hi wonders? Publishers? Not much, or 'ee 'd be a cussin'. Hof
that 'aughty dame hover at Drury Lane, who won't kiss and make hup?
That's hit, I 'll bet. Well, this his n't polishin' 'is boots, his it,
Pupsy?"
Seizing a brush from the table, the boy began to rub a dilapidated
topboot vigorously, meanwhile humming in cheerful discord a verse of a
song, as yet unknown to the general public, but destined to become a
permanent favorite with all lovers of music and poetry.
"'Twas the last rose hof summer left bloomink alone."
A knock on the door interrupted his song, but before he could reply to
it, in marched Mrs. Malone with arms akimbo, and a determined expression
making grave a face naturally good humored.
"Oh, hit's you, his it?" said Buster, regarding the woman with
disapproving eye.
"I suppose you t'ought it was the Prince of Wales," replied Mrs. Malone.
"No, Hi didn't, 'cos w'y? 'Cos 'is Royal 'Ighness never hopens the door
till Hi says come hin. 'Ee 's got better manners, 'ee 'as," replied the
boy.